So from his tree that sneaky snake old Satan who is so inappropriately named dropped some insight here unto me, like an apple, yet better written Apple. Maybe us transgender folks are really just the marriages of tattered, awful souls who’ve long since left the mortal coil, now bound back together in a lonely, preternatural soul.
I know I’ve known you long ago, but listless life was lithely wrong. She left me drifting there no whisper could be heard or uttered to repair.
My other me.
She, that once was the other him, the cataplexy’s breath is in me now. We’ve dared on forth for more too many Earths than rain men can multiply. She my me, the other he, the brain-dead I, the other see.